Suds
by Whale Songs
Summary: A soapy story. Shepherd's dead and Soap believes his life's come to an end. But Ghost left a secret Price has sworn to protect. Now, come hell or highwater Soap is along for the ride with an odd new cohort in tow. But has Price told him the whole story?
1. Chapter one: Raw

**Author's note-** This is my first posted story. :) It's mainly a Soap story, but I tried to do something kinda different from most other CoD stories (though they are all wonderful)…whether it flies or not is up to you guys though I suppose. So please read and tell me what you think. I warn that some of the major characters in this story are OCs, in case that bugs you. And I also apologize for the jumbled shittiness of this first chapter. I had a lot to cram in there, but I also just wanted to get on with the story. So anything that doesn't make sense now will later on! Please enjoy.

**Chapter one: Raw**

The polished wood handle of the pistol felt smooth and natural in Soap's shaking hand. Though it did not belong to him, he was well acquainted with the weapon he held indeed- he had used it to kill Imran Zakhaev that day on the bridge. With a single shot from this simple weapon he had cleaned up Price's dirty work from over 20 years ago, and from his actions the wrath of Makarov was born.

Makarov, the enemy whose defeat was unattainable. Shepherd, the enemy whose trust cost the 141 an arm and a leg. Enemies, enemies, enemies. You kill one, and another pops up out of nowhere. Humanity's war was doomed to last for eternity, it seemed.

…So what was the point? Soap turned the gun over in his hands, examining the gleam that shone from the shiny black trigger, longing so to be pulled…

Footsteps in the hallway behind him made him quickly set the gun in his lap and out of view from whoever was passing by; he didn't want to be caught looking at it. He shifted around in his wheelchair, and glanced over his shoulder at the door to make sure no one was watching him. The hall was empty. Assured, he turned back and stared out the window in front of him for a minute. It was a decent spring day, with the sun shining and crocuses beginning to sprout up around the yard beyond the glass. Everything was normal, familiar and even quaint. It was all surreal to him.

Where he was exactly was a story in itself. Thanks to Nikolai and his numerous contacts, Soap and Price had returned (or more literally, had been smuggled) to the UK for possibly the last time in their lives. Why? To _attend a memorial_ for Ghost and Roach. Soap thought Price was daft when the old man suggested it. Why the hell would they take such a huge risk just to go to a memorial- fallen comrades or not? How could he ask Nikolai to put his life on the line by getting them there? Soap had argued, but what Price says pretty much always goes. So there they were, in some person's house, all getting ready to attend this damned memorial. Soap, of course, could not get himself to relax.

He was in a wheelchair, which he despised with a burning passion. According to the doctor, he wasn't _strong enough to walk around yet_. The wound was in his chest, not his legs for God's sake. As soon as he and Price had departed, he tried to ditch the chair, which flung Price into an irritating rant about how he needed to stop being so goddamn cocky and allow himself to heal properly. So here he was, in the chair, donning a pair of sweat pants in rebellion. He knew Ghost and Roach wouldn't have given a damn if he wasn't wearing trousers anyways.

On top of feeling like a helpless cripple, he also had barely slept in days due to sudden night terrors. Whenever he closed his eyes all he would see was the blinding lights of gunfire, bodies and blood scattered about his mind. The screams and machine guns rattled in his head endlessly. He would jerk awake at once, sweating and on the brink of crying out himself. He didn't understand why he was getting nightmares now and never before, but he did know that he wanted it to stop. All the bad memories, all the death that was just another part of his regular life, he needed it to go away, to cease. Which brought him back to the gun in his hand.

He could never be a free man again- too many people wanted him dead. He shouldn't even be alive; he and Price hadn't intended to come back from the revenge mission in Afghanistan. He had finished Shepherd, so what was his purpose now? Life was painful and he had no more drive left, like a car out of gasoline.

He tapped his fingernails against the wooden grip, then clicked the safety off. Price really shouldn't have left it in his coat pocket on the nearby table. Soap's mind was beginning to race, starting to contemplate so many things. The words 'why not?' popped into his head several times. Why not, why not, why not…

He toyed with the gun, brushed the trigger with his finger. Then he made a move to point it at himself directly, up at his neck. He chuckled, some sort of madness was taking him over. He felt like he was looking down into the ocean from the edge of a pier. The sun was hot on his back and the water below was surely cool and refreshing, but he couldn't quite get himself to jump.

"Soap?" came a voice from behind him, breaking him out of his obsessive notions. He jumped in sheer alarm and nearly set the gun off on accident.

"Soap, what are you doing?" it was Price, his voice low and cautious. Soap could see his scowling face in the reflection of the window.

"I'm just thinking" he replied. Price scoffed.

"Well put my handgun down, Socrates, and maybe try some hemlock juice? No need for you to go and soil the nice rug with your brains."

Soap frowned. Price never was good with gentle words of comfort. He nonetheless clicked the gun's safety back on and handed it over to its rightful owner, who quickly stuck it in his belt.

"Good. Now are you ready?" Price was wearing a nice shirt and pants and had even combed his graying hair (and moustache) into a slick, orderly manner. Only the cast on his leg and the cane he was leaning on was any reminder of the real man under the tidy facade. Soap could barely recognize him.

"I suppose. Though I still don't see why it's so vital that we go." He said. Price shrugged him off and turned to leave, motioning at someone in the hall. Chemo, one of the few other 141 members to accompany them then entered and started wheeling Soap out the door, much to his embarrassment. If he could make it through this hellish day, then he might just reward himself with some of that hemlock juice Price had mentioned- or something more accessible, of course. And then he could just sleep.

. . .

The little stone church was nestled in the shadow of a grassy hill, white flowers dotting all the green. It was so peaceful, so alien to Soap as Chemo pushed him down the cobblestone path to the entrance, Price following behind and sucking in the last few drags he had on his cigarette.

Anxiety was building up more and more in the younger captain's gut. He would have to meet his late comrades' families, have to finally face the guilt he had from trusting Shepherd. As overly-macho as it sounded, emotion was something he had learned to push aside. It got in the way of decision-making. But lately he had been having trouble keeping anything within his mentality in check. This memorial was certainly not going to help.

As the heavy wooden doors were pushed open, Soap could see literally every person within the church turn to look at him. There weren't many mourners, but it may as well have been an entire crowd. He lowered his eyes, unable to return a single gaze. _Here we go_. There were a few awkward moments of whispering, until finally someone approached the newcomers, stopping right in front of Soap's wheelchair. They were two women, probably in their late forties, both wearing simple black dresses.

"Thank you all so much for coming" said the taller of the two, glancing around at the different faces of the group. She had short, brownish-tan hair that struck Soap with familiarity.

"We're glad we could make it, Mrs. Sanderson." Price said to her, "Aren't we, Soap?"

"Yes," Soap agreed as sincerely as possible, as paralyzed with fear as he was. "Very much so." He quickly glanced away as her eyes met his.

"And how are you holding up, Mrs. Riley?" Price asked the other woman, using the name Soap had been dreading to hear the most. Ghost's mother was shorter, thinner and had her dark-brown hair pinned back to reveal her pale, sallow face and dark eyes. She did not seem to be doing as well as Roach's mother. Soap thought, ironically, that she looked something like a ghost.

"Better, thank you captain." She replied quietly, her cockney accent adding a slight kick to the polite words. They exchanged a long smile before she turned to Soap.

"I don't believe I've actually made your acquaintance yet, captain MacTavish, though I'd heard much about you from S-Simon."

Soap was caught off guard by this for some reason. He had never thought of Ghost outside of work, and never imagined that he'd talk to his mother about him. But then again, Soap never talked to his own mother and didn't exactly know what were normal topics to discuss and what weren't.

He suddenly realized that everyone was looking at him, waiting for him to respond to what Mrs. Riley had just said.

"He was a great man and friend, and an exceptional soldier." He stated, taking the words off the top of his head. Friend. Ghost was his friend. Was that why Price found it so important that they were here?

"They both were" Soap added, nodding at Mrs. Sanderson. Both women beamed, and for now their eyes were full of pride instead of tears.

Once he had taken his seat, Soap took a better look around the church. It was only big enough to hold about five cramped rows of pews. Through the short, narrow aisle a worn red carpet ran up to the altar. There, where there would usually be a casket, stood a large table. On it was a lacy cloth and a jumble of garlands and bouquets that nearly engulfed the two framed photographs of Gary Sanderson and Simon Riley that sat amongst the flowery mess. In both pictures the two men looked a lot younger and carefree. To Soap, the smiling, mask-free face of the man he knew as Ghost was extremely off-putting. He suddenly seemed more human.

And more dead.

Above the table hung a dusty chandelier and an ornate cross suspended on a chain from the ceiling. In the background a small organ sat and on the back wall the words "Peace on Earth" were painted in gold letters with a picture of a dove carrying an olive branch underneath. Soap snorted. Like that was ever going to happen.

"When is this thing going to start?" he mumbled to Price, who was sitting on his right. The older captain was looking over at the far side of the room, where a cluster of people stood.

"Who are you staring at?" Soap asked.

Price didn't answer and got to his feet, hobbling on his cane towards the group that had intrigued his interest. Soap watched his every move, growing more wary and suspicious every moment. Had an unsavory character snuck in? A spy? Another of their numerous enemies? He felt around his pockets for some sort of weapon, preparing for the ambush. But Price simply tapped on the shoulder of a young woman, who _turned around and_ _hugged him! _Soap's eyes narrowed at once. Who was this woman and how did she know Price? What kind of madness could have possibly driven her to want to _hug_ him?

They talked for a minute, then Price gestured in Soap's direction. The woman looked over right at him, then smiled and waved. He was dumbstruck, but managed to lift his hand and wave back awkwardly. Did he know her?

He was about to find out, because they were walking back towards where he was sitting. Price was smiling grimly as he approached, a hint of anticipation sparkling in his eyes.

"John MacTavish," he began, almost carefully, "I have someone very important for you to-"

"I'm Alyssa" the woman interjected, extending her hand. Her face was glowing like she meeting Jesus himself instead of the poor, battered soul hunched in the wheelchair before her.

"I'm a friend of Simon's." she said. Her hand still hung in midair. Soap took it hesitantly, and she gave it a rather enthusiastic shake. The first note he took of her was the sheer strength he felt through that hand of hers; like she could rip his arm off in a millisecond if it struck her fancy. Her wavy black hair hung near his face as she bent to greet him.

"Why don't you have a seat?" Price suggested, and she happily plopped down next to Soap. Price went to take his own seat, but Soap grabbed his arm.

"I think we need to have a talk."

. . .

"Who is she, Price? Who the hell is she and why is she the reason we're here?" Soap demanded. They were behind a tall bush near the church's back door. Price's lips curled in a frown under the mustache, his arms crossed awkwardly with his cast.

"Ghost asked me to watch over her if anything should happen to him…which it did, obviously."

Soap could not believe his ears.

"_What?_ We're hardly in a bloody position to be doing _that_. She's in more danger than not every minute she's near us!" he exclaimed. Price continued to frown at him.

"We've got to do it" he said.

"_HOW_?"

"Quiet down for cripes sake!"

Soap huffed and pushed his wheels back and forth in frustration. This day could not get any more irritating.

"We can't stay here for some girl." He said. Price shrugged.

"Who says we're staying here? We'll take her with us. She's willing to go."

"That's _mad- _she's going to get killed" Soap argued.

"You don't even know where we're going"

"Yeah, well where?"

Before Price could answer, the organ playing inside the church signaled the beginning of the service and before he knew it, Soap was being whisked back through the door by the older captain and to his spot near the front pew. He would have to wait and find out, like usual.

"Oh, the flower arrangements are wonderful! Simon would have loved all the chrysanthemums." Alyssa crooned as they returned. What the hell were chrysanthemums? This was getting way too weird.

"I never took Ghost to be a… florist" Soap commented. Alyssa turned and stared at him for a moment- though 'staring' felt as far away as possible from what she was actually doing. Her eyes were enormous and grey and impossibly piercing, making Soap's heart nearly skip a beat in alarm. He felt like she could see his mind, his secrets. Under the gaze of those magnificent eyes he was just a wide-open book, which she could flip through and read so easily. And then they flitted away.

He knew then that there was something about this woman; something…unusual.

"Oh yes, that's what you called him." She said quietly, "And he wore that mask. One time he climbed through my window wearing it, and I screamed so loud that I woke up the entire floor of my apartment building."

Price snorted and broke into a chuckle. Alyssa started giggling. Then laughing. Then full-on cracking up with an alarming gusto.

Soap glanced nervously over at Price, who sighed.

"She's stricken with grief" he explained quietly.

And then the hearty laughter next to him melted into heaving sobs, and memorial had officially begun.


	2. Chapter two: Lament

**Chapter two: Lament**

"Gary was always a good boy."

"Simon always did well with his studies."

"Gary was my best friend."

"Simon was such a caring soul."

"I've lost a brother."

The speeches, the stories and the memories went on and on and on. By now Soap had gone far beyond guilt and pity; he was actually grieving. Grieving to the point of barely noticing that Alyssa was literally soaking his shoulder with tears, though he shed none himself.

His stomach churned unpleasantly as he looked at Ghost's picture. There wasn't even a body for his family to say goodbye to. He was dead and helpless and Soap hated it.

Soap knew what he had to do. He wanted to honor this man somehow, even if it meant staying alive to help Price carry out the favor bestowed upon him. Even though this favor involved babysitting a strange girl he didn't even know.

Because that's what friends did, damn it.

. . .

"Price, if she wants to come with us, and if Ghost wanted us to stay with her then we should do it" Soap announced quietly as he was wheeled out the front doors of the church after the service.

"Who says I needed your bloody stamp of approval?" Price retorted. Soap genuinely smiled for the first time in a very long while.

The sun was beginning to set behind the yonder hills, tinting the grass gold. The shapes of the mourners floated down the cobblestone path like shadows, a bittersweet tranquility heavy in the air. Soap glanced back at Alyssa, who was talking with Mrs. Riley, who clung to her forlorn-looking husband as they made their way to the dirt parking lot. He noticed that Alyssa was the only one not wearing black; her dress was dark blue and speckled with pink flowers. Long and flowing around her ankles, it shimmered spectacularly in the dying sunlight.


	3. Chapter three: The Mystery Woman

**Chapter three: The Mystery Woman**

"_YOU'RE GOING TO CRASH, YOU'RE GOING TO CRASH!"_

Soap grabbed desperately at the wheels of his chair, trying to stop himself before he collided with the concrete wall of the aircraft hangar. Just in time he managed to slow himself down enough so he could extend his leg and kick off the wall instead of slamming into it. He spun around, surprisingly breathing fairly hard. Alyssa was standing a little ways away with her hands clapped over her mouth, her massive eyes wide as she watched him.

"Can we be done yet?" Soap begged her, wiping the sweat from his forehead with his jacket sleeve. She dropped her hands.

"One more go." She said. "Please?"

"I don't know if this thing can handle it" Soap insisted, beckoning to the wheelchair. Indeed, a number of spokes on the left tire had been bent in a previous freak accident where he had crashed into one of the hangar's large pillars. Now the wheel was cockeye and kept forcing the chair to skew slightly to the left as he rolled.

But then again, he did want out of this chair.

"On second thought, let's go"

Alyssa excitedly ran over and mounted the two foot pedals on the back of the chair and started pushing off the ground with her right foot, like a skateboard. Soon they were gaining momentum; Soap gripped both wheels to keep them on track. The chair rattled like an old can; he expected it would fall apart at any time and he would quite possibly receive a skid burn on a large portion of his ass the moment it did. Talk about a rush.

Now they were very much exceeding the velocity that the wheelchair was built to withstand; the other side of the enormous room was fast approaching. Alyssa was giggling behind him like a child, her hair flapping in the air out of the corner of his eye. How could this be fun to her? They were speeding along with almost zero control and could crash at any second.

"Stop!" he yelled finally, about 20 feet from the wall. She immediately slammed her foot down and dragged it along the ground, Soap did his best to slow the wildly spinning wheels with his hands. After a bit of frantic swerving and some adrenaline, they managed to come to a complete stop a few feet from the wall.

"That was the fastest yet!" Alyssa said breathlessly as she jumped from the chair and pirouetted to Price, who had been anxiously hunched against the wall, eyeing each entrance to the hangar. The only other person in the room besides the three of them was some guy who worked there at the airport and would direct the plane they were waiting for into the hangar when it landed. So far he had just kept to himself and watched Soap and Alyssa joyride the wheelchair with much amusement, but Price had his eye on him too.

"Have you heard anything from Nikolai?" Soap asked in a low voice. Price shook his head. Excellent; Nikolai was almost 45 minutes late at this point.

"He'll be here" Soap said, though he wasn't quite sure himself. From his experience, Nikolai was never late. And if he didn't show now, they were definitely screwed.

"After all the times we've saved his ass, he better be" Price grumbled. He had been a nervous wreck all morning, and with good reason. They were on the international most-wanted list, after all.

They waited five more minutes.

Then ten.

Price cussed under his breath repeatedly. Then, the radio attached to the hangar employee's hip suddenly buzzed aloud, announcing the arrival of the plane. Price did not unclench his fists nor jaw until the small jet was parked successfully in front of him. Soap sighed in relief.

"HELLOO MY FRIENDS!" Nikolai bellowed as the plane's door swung open. Judging by overly-enthusiastic greeting, he no doubt realizeed how deep of shit he was in for being so late.

"What the _hell _took you so long?" Price demanded, but he was smiling slightly. The hangar man wheeled a set of stairs up to the plane and Nikolai descended.

"I am sorry. Business is business." He apologized. Whatever that meant.

"Well we're glad you're here, mate" Price said, "Let's get out of here. Soap…" he looked at Soap, then looked at the stairs leading up to the plane's door.

"I don't suppose there's an escalator?"

Soap jumped at this opportunity- literally. He leaped out of the chair and onto his feet so fast that Price had no time to object.

"I can walk"

Price was in no mood to argue. Alyssa grabbed her bag, and they swiftly boarded the plane, Soap victoriously back on his two legs.

Once seated, Nikolai handed out fake passports.

"Don't lose" he instructed.

Soap's name in the passport was 'Albert Merriweather'. He was not pleased.

As the plane backed out of the hangar, Alyssa stared out the window solemnly. Soap rested his head against the wall. The cabin was warm and the engines hummed steadily in the background. He was asleep before they lifted off the runway.

. . .

The wind outside the niche howled. Or perhaps it was the mountain that howled as the storm battered its massive body and the oncoming night wrapped its frozen arms around it in a smothering embrace.

"What's the temperature?"

"Uhh…about 18 below so far. Celsius."

"It's gonna be a cold one. We'll have to keep the fire going" Soap said. Sitting across from him in the small rock niche, slumped in a black sleeping bag was his young new recruit, Gary Sanderson or "Roach", as he was now known. MacTavish lit a cigarette and stuffed it in his mouth, then tossed one to his partner, who was clearly trying to hide the fact that he was shivering.

"You keep watch for two hours, then I'll wake up and take over for two hours. Alright?"

"Yes, sir." Roach said.

"And keep the fire alive or we might freeze" MacTavish added. He beckoned to the small sack of firewood they had brought next to the rest of their gear.

"Yes, sir."

The captain extinguished his cigarette. Then he laid down, zipped his mummy bag all the way up and pulled the hood over his head and fastened it around his ski-masked face. The fire warmed his feet, which felt cold despite the layers of wool socks he was wearing. Trusting either his internal clock or Roach to wake him in a couple hours, he drifted off to sleep in his oversized cocoon.

When his eyes flew open again, MacTavish knew something was off by the color of the sky. He knew he had overslept- a lot. But just as he was about to sit up and yell at a snoozing Roach for not waking him, he noticed the wind had died down and he could hear a healthy fire crackling in the background. He looked up. Roach was sitting there, very much awake and watching that fire like the world depended on it.

"Roach"

The young man glanced up at him, his eyes sporting numerous dark circles underneath them.

"Sorry sir, I didn't want to wake you. I don't think I can sleep anyways, not with all this anticipation." He said. MacTavish removed the ski mask with a sigh. It had warmed up some without the wind.

"Well why don't you try now; I'll take over" he said. Roach obediently laid down and closed his eyes.

MacTavish chuckled to himself. He really was a good kid.

Soap knew what he meant though by anticipation; this was a stressful mission, and Roach's first mission, at that. With stealth operations like this one, a single mistake usually spelled disaster. But MacTavish never let himself get too worried, it just made things worse. Especially when you have the lives of others depending on you.

"Roach?"

"Yes sir?"

"You're gonna be fine. I've got your back."

"…Thank you, sir."

The air of anxiety in the niche seemed to lessen a bit. Soap threw another log on the fire and minutes later Roach was snoring softly.

"Roach, let's go."

It was morning. The rookie got up, grabbed his pack and followed his captain out of the niche. They left behind the sleeping bags and remaining firewood. The sun was rising somewhere, though it was lost in the dark clouds surrounding the mountains. Fat snowflakes drifted through the air. They climbed for a while, then stopped on a tiny ledge for a cigarette break. The enemy's sleek jets flashed through the clouds overhead. They were close.

They resumed climbing. It was easy enough, until they pulled themselves up onto a wide ledge covered in a sheet of slick ice. Here, their path was disrupted by a four of five-foot-wide gap in the ledge, the ground invisible hundreds of feet beneath the swirling clouds and snow. MacTavish turned to Roach, his face almost mischievous as he wound himself up to run.

"See you on the other side."

Then he sprinted right to the edge of the gap and flew, arms flailing and landed on the other side with considerable refinement, given the numerous layers of clothing he had on.

Roach was scared shitless, but it was the only way across. He ran as fast as he could and sprang off at the last second. He was airborne for what felt like minutes. He watched the other side of the ledge approach him in slow motion. He readied his arms and legs for landing.

Unfortunately, he didn't quite make it. He slammed into the edge and started sliding. The ice was thick and completely solid and despite his frantic efforts, he could barely get a decent grip with his picks. He was going to fall.

Roach let out a strangled cry as he disappeared over the ledge. MacTavish's attention snapped over and panic instantly shot through him when his companion was nowhere to be seen. He instantly raced to the edge, his chest pounding, and dropped down on his stomach. His hand shot down and grabbed Roach's arm just as his pick separated from the ice.

"I got you!" Soap yelled. The kid looked up at him, his wide eyes full of both relief and terror. Digging his crampons into the ground, MacTavish started to pull him up. It was going to be okay, everything was fine. They were both safe. Roach chuckled a bit.

"I just about shit my-" he started, but he was interrupted by an impossibly bright light bursting through the clouds that blinded the both of them. The air heated up in a matter of seconds and, to Soap's horror, the ice beneath them _began to melt_. It took only seconds for the chunk Roach was hanging off of to break off the rest of the ledge. And with a startled yelp he dropped off the mountain.

"ROACH!" MacTavish screamed. The last thing he saw was the young man's frightened face vanish into the clouds. The light was getting brighter, hotter, more intense…

"_JESUS CHRIST!" _Soap lashed out with his fists and knocked the flashlight Price was shining on his face out of his hand. It thumped on the floor and rolled down the aisle of the plane. It had all been another nightmare.

"I was sleeping! What the fuck is wrong with you?" Soap yelled.

"Been trying to wake you up for ten minutes" Price said, unfazed, "You kept yelling 'Roach'."

Soap was panting, adrenaline pumping through him like crazy. If there was one thing he hated worse than these nightmares, it was being startled. Resisting the urge to get up and strangle Price, he sat back and glanced over at Alyssa, who was staring at him with a small smile on her lips.

_You were dreaming about Gary, weren't you? You do have a heart. You're sad he's dead. Miserable, even. Simon too. _He could practically hear her thinking the words. He was embarrassed to have made a scene. He didn't want her sympathy, nor anyone else's.

She laughed a bit, then made a wiping motion across the corner of her mouth.

"You have a bit of…"

Soap quickly wiped a fair amount of drool off his mouth with his sleeve. Great. As if he couldn't look any more like an idiot.

Alyssa was still looking at him. He glared back.

"Who are you?" he snapped.

"Soap…" groaned Price, looking more and more exasperated.

"It's okay" Alyssa said, shaking her head. She turned to Soap. "I know what you're feeling, John. You feel like I'm intruding into your life, a secret that a person you thought of as your friend hid from you but told about to someone else he barely knew."

"You weren't just Ghost's 'friend', were you?"

She frowned.

"No. We were engaged. And I'm also carrying his child."

_Well thanks for clueing me in on that one, Price_.

Soap didn't respond. He just looked at her. And it was the first time that she struck him with familiarity. He knew he had seen he before their meeting at the memorial. But where? From his brain he could only extract a shred of yellowed memory, a flicker of her face, younger at the time. Her gray eyes shining from afar as she stared at him like she was doing now.

But maybe he wasn't really remembering. Maybe his mind was just making things up; he was exhausted, after all.

"You don't mind if I call you John, do you?" she asked softly.

"No."

"Oh good. It's my father's name, John is. But I don't know anything else about him. "

"…Me too." Soap said. Alyssa smiled again.

"See? We're not so different." She said kindly.


	4. Chapter four: The Safehouse

**This chapter is kind of yucky. I'm sorry. **

**Chapter four: The 'Safehouse' **

"Why the hell do you refuse to tell me _anything_?"

"I was getting around to it."

Soap rolled his eyes. Price was so full of shit sometimes he just couldn't believe it.

"Lighten up, Soap, we're here now." Price said as they passed underneath a red flag hanging from the ceiling bearing a white cross. Switzerland. Another surprise from Price.

"Why Switzerland?"

"What have you got against the Swiss, Soap?"

"Nothing, I just thought we were getting the hell out of Europe altogether. Not that you gave me _any sort of detail_ pertaining to your mad plans." Soap grumbled. They were nearing the customs station of the tiny airport where Nikolai had dropped them off, and his nerves went completely haywire with anxiety once again. He had been a mess during landing, half-expecting the authorities to be waiting for them on the runway. But, they had miraculously managed to reach their destination undetected. Hopefully their luck would hold out until they reached the safe house.

"What if he's been told to watch out for us like probably every other customs agent has?" Soap whispered to Price as they waited behind a couple showing their passports.

"I think we'll be fine."

"Oh yeah? How do you reckon?"

"Just a feeling."

The couple ahead of them were checked through easily, and Soap moved up, his heart thumping.

"Good afternoon" he greeted, trying to tame his Scottish accent a bit. The agent, a bald, middle-aged man in a white polo looked at him for what felt like a very long time.

"Passport" he finally said. Soap handed it over. The agent flipped through it very slowly, seemingly examining every detail of the little book. Then, satisfied, he stamped the last page and simply handed it back to Soap.

"Have a nice stay, Mr. Merriweather." The relief that washed over him was indescribable.

Two stamps later and the three of them were heading for the doors.

"Wait!" yelled the agent suddenly.

They froze. Soap began to panic. _He's realized, we're finished. _He turned around slowly. The customs man was glaring at them.

"Miss, you left your jacket." He said, gesturing to the counter. Blushing, Alyssa rushed forward to grab it and they all practically ran out the doors into the afternoon sunlight.

They had made it past the hard part.

"What's the catch?" Soap wondered aloud.

"Why does there always have to be a catch?" Price said. "Nikolai knows how to take care of us."

For once, maybe things were going to be easy.

"Is that cab for us?" Alyssa asked, speaking up for the first time since the plane had landed. She motioned to a yellow vehicle parked near the curb.

"Oh yes, of course." Price said, rushing over to greet the driver. He waved them over, and they all piled in. The cushy seats reeked of stale cigarettes. Price sat up front and started having a conversation with the driver in fluent German as they pulled into the empty street.

"Captain Price speaks German?" Alyssa whispered to Soap, who shrugged.

"For all I know, that man can speak ancient Polish."

Now that he could focus on something besides getting out of the airport without handcuffs, Soap observed the landscape outside the cab window. It was pretty, to say the least. Green grass and pine trees lined the roads and bright red wildflowers glittered in the sun like rubies. The horizon was complete with a view of a far-off, snow-capped mountain range that could have been the Alps. Soap could get used to living in a place like this.

They drove for a long time and passed through several small towns. Some were nice, but others were obviously very old and falling into disrepair with shabby cottages, empty chicken coops and decrepit church steeples- a memory of an old way of life becoming slowly forgotten in the wake of shining high-rises and sprawling cities.

"You been here before?" he asked Alyssa.

"Oh yes. A few times. Isn't it nice?"

Soap shrugged. But he did think it was.

Eventually he fell asleep again, but did not dream. It was the best nap of his life. He woke up with the sunshine pouring in the cab window onto his pale face. He blinked, realizing the car had stopped.

"Come on, Soap" said Price. The older captain was turned around in the front passenger's seat, his silvery eyes piercing. He looked almost godly in the bright light.

"We're here?" Soap mumbled. Specks of dust swirled peacefully around his head.

"Yes"

"Okay."

He stumbled out of the car, practically high off that feeling one gets after a good nap. It was warm out, they were safe and everything was going to be fine. Life would be simple and good now just as long as they could stay in hiding. And as seemingly remote as this place was, that could easily be forever.

They approached the house the taxi had parked in front of. It was quite large, old-looking and built exclusively from a dark wood. It had several stained-glass windows, all of which had their curtains drawn. There was a sign out front that said "Sally's".

"Who's Sally?" Soap asked Price, not necessarily expecting a straight answer at this point.

"An old friend of mine"

"Does she run some sort of business here?" he motioned to the sign. Price found this funny for some reason.

"Yes, she does."

The front door of the house opened and a tall, middle-aged woman with graying brown hair piled up on her head emerged. She smiled when she saw them and rushed down the steps.

"You've made it" she said, pulling Price into a tight hug, "I was getting worried. Almost" she smirked as she examined his face.

"My god, you're an old fart now."

Price scoffed and playfully pushed her away.

"Thanks, sissy. You're not exactly the spring chicken you used to be, you know."

"Oh shut up" she laughed, hitting him on the arm. She was an impossibly tall and lanky woman, dressed in a long gown and a sheer cardigan that showed off her bony shoulders.

"This is John Mactavish, my old partner in crime." Soap was surprised when he was suddenly pushed forward.

"Good to meet you" he said quickly, offering his hand. She practically had to crouch to greet him.

"Sally Price." She pinched his cheek, grinning. "My, aren't you handsome?"

Soap was too stunned to respond, but Sally moved along anyways and introduced herself to Alyssa.

"And aren't you a pretty girl!" she crooned, "Your hair is so black and lustrous. Is it natural?"

"Yes" Alyssa said, blushing.

"Well you're a lucky girl. My girls are always complaining about how their hair is already graying. They're still kids for God's sake!"

"You have daughters?"

"A daughter, yes."

_One daughter?_ _Then what did she mean by 'girls'? _

"Why don't we head inside?" Price suggested, catching Soap's suspicious glare.

"Of course" said Sally, and she swept up the stairs and through the front door.

The front hallway was warm, dimly lit by a few brass sconces and smelled like candles. It wasn't unwelcoming, but it also felt like somewhere to hide. Down the hall some voices could be heard, a television on, and the soft clinking of glasses. Sally marched down, leading the way, and grinned proudly once they reached the next room.

"This is the parlor"

Soap froze. The room was ornately furnished, with doilies, frilly curtains and knitted afghans everywhere- but forget that for now. Five or six women were sitting around the television, but the odd part was that they weren't wearing clothes, just skimpy nightgowns and negligee, with the occasional see-through robe wrapped around them. Sally announced something in German, they all tore their eyes from the screen and turned to stare at the two men. Soap practically blushed, Price bowed like a gentleman. The girls, in return, gave them an uninterested shrug and turned back to the TV, which was playing an American sitcom with the voices dubbed over sloppily.

"Business is a little slow today" Sally explained, waving her hand. A screen door slammed behind her, and another figure entered the room, a thin young woman. Her arms were piled with vegetables, and she was covered from head-to-toe with dirt. Her round, muddy face was framed by two curtains of short, tangled blonde hair. When she saw Sally, she jumped a bit and backpedaled, like she had ventured too far into a cave and found a hungry bear.

"What did I tell you about coming in here with your filthy feet?" Sally snapped at her, no doubt scolding more gently than she normally would, being in the company of guests.

"You remember your uncle, don't you?" she continued, gesturing to Price. The girl looked at him, a frown plastered stubbornly on her face. She didn't say anything. Sally let out an exasperated sigh.

"This is his friend, Mr. MacTavish. Can you say hello to him?"

She didn't even bother looking at Soap. With a roll of her eyes, she stomped defiantly across the room and disappeared through another door with her vegetables. A faucet was flipped on.

"Adolescents…" Sally sighed apologetically. But she didn't say anything else about the girl.

The gaudy pink mat sitting under the screen door was left with two perfect little brown footprints on it.

The tour continued, and it was confirmed that there wasn't a speck of testosterone in this house. Everything was fancy and smelled like candy or flowers. Soap started coughing at one point and Price forced him to sit down for a few minutes. Finally, once they had completed the tour of this house, they went out the back door and crossed a small yard with a little path and entered another smaller house that was much plainer in décor. The ruins of a small barn stood nearby. When this was a big farm, this smaller house was for the servants, Sally explained. And yet, she was the one who was living in it, even though she owned the property. The big house was reserved solely for the business.

Even so, the farmhouse was still two stories and had three upstairs bedrooms, though everything was quite compact. Downstairs, there was a small kitchen and a connected sitting room with a television. Soap couldn't remember the last time he watched television. They stomped up the stairs and went down the short hall, where there was a little room set up for him and Price. It had a puny bunk bed, a dresser, and not much else. But Soap couldn't have cared less- he had slept in many ridiculous, uncomfortable and otherwise insane places before, and this didn't even come close to being on his top ten list.

"Lovely" Price commented, probably thinking the same thing.

Alyssa was led to the room next door, and Soap and Price were left to settle in.

"I get tops" Price said, referring to the bunk bed.

"Whatever."

"Oh, what's up your arse now, Soap?"

"Nothing, I guess." The younger man retorted, "I'm just living in a whorehouse owned by your sister. Gimme a few minutes to get over it."

Price frowned.

"You've changed, you know. A few months ago this wouldn't have bothered you a bit."

"Who said it bothers me? It's just a little surprising, that's all." Soap said defensively.

"Well, you've still changed."

"Exactly how so?"

"You're not even a person anymore. You're just a ghost, floating around. I think you're having issues with moving on."

Soap was completely taken aback. Price never talked about these sort of things, about _feelings_. Faced with this sudden concern for his emotional health, Soap's automatic response was to put up more walls.

He scoffed.

"That's a load of bollocks. Who made you the bloody psychiatrist anyways?"  
"You know I'm right" Price said.

Was he right? Maybe. But Soap wasn't about to admit to crap.

"I'm done talking to you" he said, and plopped down on the lower bunk of the bed. Price left.

Soap sat thinking for a little while, grinding his teeth. Then he laid down on the bed and did not get up for the rest of the day.


	5. Chapter five: Moonshine

**I am very tired. This story is taking me forever to write. :) **

**Chapter five: Moonshine**

It was late March, a few years back. Or maybe April. The air was clear and warm as the sun went down behind the green horizon of Credenhill. Soap was leaving the mess area of the SAS base and started towards his barracks, fretting the whole way about Cpt. Price. He hadn't seen the man in weeks now, and no one knew where he was. He had disappeared, largely presumed dead. But Soap knew that Price dying just wasn't possible- it defied all laws of nature. Of course at this point, Soap didn't realize that it would be another four years until he saw the man again and in the meantime, doubt would gnaw a festering sore deep in his chest.

It had been an eventful week. There were new recruits everywhere, and Soap had just been promoted to the rank of lieutenant. With Price missing, he was assuming a lot of leadership roles and was on sort of a power trip. When the recruits were around, he didn't walk, he marched. He didn't speak, he commanded. Nobody could call him Soap anymore unless they wanted his boot in their face- now he was strictly Lt. MacTavish. And after a year of being the underdog, he wasn't taking shit from anyone anymore.

Besides the lazy chirps of crickets in the yonder field, the only sound to be heard where his boots smacking the concrete of the walkway and his steady breathing as he went along. The sun was gone now and it was quite dark.

MacTavish suddenly heard a rustling, someone moving around close to him. He turned, looked around. Nothing. Cautiously, he began walking again, fingering the pistol on his belt. The noise again. Then a voice.

"Pssst. Oi, you! 'Tavish!"

The lieutenant looked around confusedly; he could not figure out where the voice was coming from.

"Up here!"

Finally, he spotted a face peeking down from a low rooftop. It was that one weird new guy who always wore a mask like he was ready to rob a bank at any given second.

"What the hell are you doing up there!" MacTavish demanded, growing irritated quickly. He didn't enjoy being snuck up on. The recruit's eyes glistened impishly.

"Come up here. It's quite a view."

"A view of what? Get down immediately!"

He refused to comply.

"Come on," he called, waving, "I have beer up here!"

MacTavish growled. What was with this guy?

"If I have one beer with you, will you get your stupid ass down from there?"

"Yes, sir!" he agreed eagerly.

Grumpily, MacTavish pulled himself onto a dumpster next to the building and somehow managed to claw the rest of the way up the wall and onto the roof. The recruit slapped a bottle into his hand and MacTavish chugged it down thirstily; the climb had required more effort than expected.

The guy removed his balaclava and opened a bottle for himself, grinning.

"Glad you could join me, lieutenant." He said loudly in his cockney accent. He obviously already had some sort of a buzz going.

"What's your name again?" MacTavish asked.

"Riley. Ghost." He answered, and took a long gulp.

"Oh, really? I've been calling you 'Mr. Bones' all week." Soap said, referring to the skull print on the mask. He hadn't meant this to be necessarily funny, but Ghost started positively sputtering, his beer-less hand smacking his knee.

"And me and this other kid, we've been calling _you _G.F.H.- Git with Faux-Hawk!" Ghost roared, spilling his beer on his pants. MacTavish glared at him poisonously, clearly offended. That name wasn't even clever in the least, and, more importantly, _how dare they mock him, _an officer of their senior! Ghost kept on cracking up, not noticing that his acquaintance was not joining along.

…But God, that _laugh._ It was like there was nothing wrong in the whole world, listening to that man's laugh. He put his entire soul into it, his head thrown back, eyes streaming. The night was filled with it.

And, almost like puke, it started forcing its way out of Soap too. His chest trembled, his mouth curled up at the corners like a dead leaf. He could not control it, the giddiness spread through his body, limb-to-limb, head-to-foot. He tensed up in one last futile effort to contain it, and then it burst out like an infection that had built up inside him. Everything drained out then: his stresses about Price, the responsibilities he had suddenly had to assume. And he laughed until he nearly cried.

They calmed down gradually, until finally they were just sniffling, wiping their eyes, chuckling a few last times. MacTavish went to take another sip of his beer and realized it was empty.

"Pass me another"

Ghost tossed one to him and he popped it open.

"Take a gander at these stars" Ghost said now, looking up wondrously. They were indeed spectacular- the night sky was crystal clear, and every individual star was a little sparkling diamond emblazoned into the silky black banner of the heavens. MacTavish could not recall a time when he ever enjoyed looking at the sky so much.

"I'm gonna be up there someday" Ghost said. He was lying on his back, head lolled to the side, bottle in one hand, the other resting on his stomach.

"That's why I'm not afraid" he went on, "because how could it be so bad up there?" He looked at MacTavish.

"You know?"

"Yeah."

They did not talk for a while longer after that, just laid there staring up. Pretty soon Ghost was snoring quietly.

"Ghost!" MacTavish called, nudging the other man's leg with his foot. He didn't even flinch. Sighing contentedly, Soap polished off another beer, then dozed off on that rooftop himself. He awoke a little later and found that Ghost was gone. The next morning in the mess hall the two of them exchanged respectful nods, a hint of a smile shrouded behind the skull-faced mask.


	6. Chapter six: SuperUnnatural

The first three days, Soap stayed in the farmhouse bedroom, not doing much of anything. He would hear Alyssa hum loudly as she passed by his door and Price stomp around on the stairs, but for now he stayed in isolation and that was all he saw of his housemates. When no one was there, he would venture downstairs just to look around. He still wasn't sure about this place; he felt like an animal shoved into an unfamiliar habitat.

On the third day, he woke up with a sour taste in his mouth and a dry throat. He could hear footsteps downstairs, but he just _had_ to get a glass of water. Figuring he'd run into Price, he got halfway down the stairs, but paused when he glanced into the kitchen beyond the railing on his right. The vegetable girl was there, drinking some juice, the back of her t-shirt dirty and faded from the sun. She finished the glass, put it in the sink and sighed, then went to put the juice carton away. She didn't notice him there. Soap felt like he was encountering a very skittish deer, and if he moved a muscle she would dart away in a flash. As ridiculous as it sounded, he couldn't get himself to alert her of his presence.

She slammed the fridge door shut, turned around. Their eyes met, hers full of surprise, his full of awkwardness. Then she glared like she was seeing something unbelievably vile. And she was gone, a little trail of footprints across the floor left behind, the screen door slamming.

Soap fumbled through a few cabinets for a glass, finally finding one. He filled it with cold tap water and drank gratefully. But as he went to go back upstairs, he paused, looking at the back door, the footprints.

Without really thinking, he backed away from the stairs, intrigue swelling in his chest. A warm breeze blew through the door, carrying the smell of earth, the sound of spade meeting soil somewhere beyond. It was inviting, nostalgic. He crossed the small room.

_John, come here! Be a good boy now and pick up that worm for your mummy. I don't want to touch it..." _

Soap reached for the handle of the door.

_"Good, now find it a nice new home away from the plants, will you love?"_

"Hey, mate."

The masculine voice rang through the air like someone had just struck a gong. Soap nearly jumped out of his socks as he flipped around and faced whoever it was. It took him a moment to comprehend who-or _what_- he was looking at.

Ghost, mask and all.

"Wha-what are you doing here?" Soap choked. He was completely breathless, from being startled and in disbelief at the sight of his deceased friend. Ghost chuckled, raised both his hands.

"Oh don't worry, I'm still dead" he assured, "You're just...well, hallucinating. Yeah, I suppose that's the word."

Still panting, Soap frowned.

"Oh yeah, I feel better now that I'm seeing dead people. Who wouldn't?" he said sarcastically, "And why would I worry about you being alive? If you were, I wouldn't be in this bloody mess."

"Your idea of a 'mess' is rather odd." Ghost commented as he plopped down on the sofa. The television turned on by itself. Soap blinked at it, dumbstruck.

"Pretty nice here. Aren't you gonna offer me a drink?" Ghost asked, eyes glued to the TV. "Oh, nevermind- Forgot there's a hole blasted in my stomach. Do you want to see it?"

"No!" Soap snapped, recoiling. "What the hell do you want from me? Shouldn't you be in, I don't know, heaven or something?"

The masked man shrugged as if he found such a paradise uninteresting, undesirable.

"How's ol' Price?"

"Why don't you ask _him_?"

"He wouldn't be able to see me; he's not mad like you."

"I'm not mad."

"Yes you are. Just ask that girl you were creeping out a minute ago. Good thing I came in here when I did; you would have followed her outside and embarrassed yourself even more."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

Ghost's eyes grinned, something Soap hadn't seen in years. It was also something he knew he couldn't possibly remember so perfectly as he was seeing it now. Was his brain really making this up, as Ghost said?

"Thanks a load, by the way."

"For what?"

"Watchin' out for my girl."

Oh, yeah. Soap had been thinking of all the things he would like to say to Ghost if he suddenly came back to life and walked into the room, the question of Alyssa being at the top of the list. But in his surprise that he was now actually getting the chance, he had forgotten everything he had prepared.

"It was a bad idea, getting involved like that" Ghost sighed, "But sometimes it's hard to think. Sometimes you just do things because you know you might as well live it up while you're still breathing"

"Okay, okay." Soap grumbled, "Save the spiritual shit, will you?"

Ghost chuckled heartily.

"I just thought I would try and convey some wisdom to your unenlightened mind. Now are you going to go back up to your room? Because it's a beautiful day and you should enjoy it while it lasts." His tone was mysterious, hinting.

"…Okay, Dalai Lama, I guess I will. Will you leave now?" Soap said.

"Don't you worry about me, I'll be gone by the time you get back." He assured. Frowning, Soap headed reluctantly towards the door.

"One more thing" Ghost called, "You know what blows the most about being dead?"

"What?"

"You have all the time in the universe to wonder what the hell was the point of your life."

Soap turned and stared at him, the words striking him like lightning.

"At least I do, anyways." Ghost said, "There's so much I didn't do, so much I should have done."

"You've done plenty, trust me."

Another nonchalant snicker burst from the obscured mouth, green eyes crinkled with glee.

"It's great to see you again, 'Tavish!"

It was great to see him too- really great. But this brought up one last question:

"…Is this the last time?"

The laughter ceased. A shrug was shrugged, like it didn't matter. But Soap suddenly felt like it _did_ matter. He missed Ghost, missed him like hell even. He made one last mirthless smile in his friend's direction and turned away, his feet heavy as he crossed the room again.

Soap opened the screen door and exited the house into the blaring sunlight, the lifeblood of the entire Earth. He sucked in the air, felt his heart speed with exhilaration. He was alive, whether he liked it or not. He glanced over his shoulder back into the house. The couch where Ghost had been sitting was empty, but the television was still playing.


	7. Chapter seven: The Matter of Bad Taste

A small plot of earth had been cleared around the corner of the house. A variety of small plants were growing there, hanging with unripe tomatoes, strawberries and other things Soap didn't recognize. Loyally hunched over these plants were their caretaker, the smell of sweat and sunscreen and something else hanging around her. She crouched like some creature, her long and gawky legs coiled tightly and prepared to spring into attack at the first sign of danger for her garden.

"…Hello" Soap greeted awkwardly. Her head whizzed around, seemingly startled although he had been standing fairly nearby for several seconds now. They stared at each other for a moment, and no response came from it. Instead, she tilted her head and spit a wad of dark brown ooze onto the ground. It took Soap a few confused moments to realize she was chewing tobacco and not the dark soil in which she crouched.

She ignored him and went back to her weeding. Soap looked around the area, then noticed a stack of beer cans against the wall. She picked one up now and opened it as he watched, but didn't drink. She poured some out around a plant, then took a small knife out of her pocket and cut the top off. Then she placed the decapitated can in a small hole next to the plant and patted down the soil around the edge.

"What are you doing that for?" Soap asked out of sheer curiosity. She spit again.

"It keeps the slugs off the plants." She said around the gob of snuff in her lip. Surprisingly, she had an American accent.

"They don't like beer?"

"No, the beer attracts them. They crawl into the can and drown in it. See?" she lifted another can up to him, containing a pair of shriveled-up slugs bobbing in the pungent liquid, their slime collecting as a grimy film on the surface. Soap sneered.

"I'm never drinking beer again."

The girl grinned, and a drip of dark juice ran down her chin.

"Really? This makes the most refreshing beverage." She brought the can near her lips as if she was going to drink it, making Soap cringe.

"That's disgusting"

She rolled her eyes, wiped the juice off her mouth.

"Calm down Scottie, I'm kidding."

An awkward moment passed as she went back to weeding in silence. She tore at the little green leaves of the invading plants with a merciless skill, then tossed them aside onto a small pile.

"Who are you anyways?" she asked a minute later. Soap was caught by surprise.

"Oh, uh- I'm John."

"My uncle calls you 'Soap'. Is that your call sign or something?"

"…How did you know that?"

"I knew he was in the army or something, and I figure you didn't get that scar from ballet dancing." She explained, looking rather pleased with herself. She was right though, and he knew the scar stretching across his face was a curious thing that he could never erase. He sunk down into the grass near the edge of the garden.

"And what's your name?" he asked.

"Annika. Or Anna." She replied.

"That's a nice name" Soap said, though from first glance such a girly name didn't seem to fit her. She looked more like a 'Jessie', or a 'Sam'. But then he remembered the parlor of the big house, coated in pink and frill and it seemed to make sense.

"It's alright I guess." She pulled her gloves off and threw them aside and went to sit next to him, as though figuring the continuation of this awkward conversation was inevitable anyways and she might as well get it over with.

"So…Where are you from?" Soap asked.

"New York. Lived with my dad." She picked at a callous on her hand uncomfortably.

"I'm not an 'adolescent', by the way, despite what my delusional mother says. I'm 20. I was in college."

"Was?"

"Yeah. Was." And that was all she seemed to want to say about that.

"So how did you end up out _here_?"

"I think I would rather hear _your_ answer to that question."

He clearly wasn't going to get much out of her unless he gave some information up as well. So, whether it be the complete madness he was succumbing to according to Ghost, or the irresistible craving to tell the truth for once, he told her exactly why he was there.

"Price and I are international criminals on the run."

The words had burst out uncontrollably, and Soap nearly clapped a hand over his mouth to make sure nothing else would escape. Ghost was right.

The girl looked at him strangely, then giggled nervously. Soap tried to go along with it by chuckling awkwardly, but he wasn't convincing enough and suddenly she wasn't smiling anymore. Her amber eyes were wide.

"Oh my God, you're serious aren't you?"

"No, of course I'm not."

"Yes you are! What did you do? Nevermind, I don't want to know." She jumped to her feet, looking even more panicked than Soap at the moment. She paced around the dirt plot, fists jammed into her thin hips.

"I _knew _something weird was going on, my uncle showing up here out of nowhere. My mother has gone way too far this time. She's going to get everyone killed or at least incarcerated; me, her, and every poor woman caught in her damned web up in that house!" she cried. Soap was horrified at this point.

"No," he said shakily, unsure at this point who he was really trying to assure, "No one is going to find us here."

She flashed him a poisonous glare

"Well I hope you're right!"

"I _am _right, damn it!" he practically shouted. He sprung up from the ground and towered over her, eyes burning with defiance. For a moment her face softened and she blinked, perhaps a tad afraid of his intensity. But then she said boldly;

"You just think you're hot shit and you know everything because you're a soldier."

"_What?_"

"You don't seem to know what being a soldier is about: sacrifice. So as the only one with half a brain around here, I'm telling you to leave before you drag more innocent people into whatever is going on"

At this point, Soap reeled backwards in shock and rage. It was too late to turn and walk away; he could not contain himself any longer.

"And _you're_ one to judge me? A pathetic college dropout mooching off her mother's whorehouse? That's not in bad taste at _all_!"

"You don't know anything about her!" she shrieked in return, "She's helped every woman who lives here! She's paid for their school, gotten them out of abusive homes-"

"And gotten them caught in that 'damned web', as you said?" Soap retorted, "Get your story straight."

He had gotten her- for a few moments, at least. She paused, frowned, her brow stuck in a furrow as she continued to glare angrily. Soap shifted his weight, waiting for the next round of sparring to break out. But she calmed suddenly, her shoulders dropped, her lips relaxed into a solemn flower bud.

"I'm a hypocrite"

"Obviously" Soap added huffily, which earned him yet another dirty look.

"Whatever." She spat, "Just stay away from me. I'm not getting stuck in the web too."

And then she turned and disappeared around the corner of the house, leaving Soap to quickly realize the enormity of what had just happened in those short few minutes. At this point he only knew one thing for sure: Price was going to kill him.


End file.
